


breathing through the radio

by Maharetchan



Category: Supernatural, Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, Community: deancasbigbang, Depression, Fallen Castiel, M/M, Mild Horror, Resolved Sexual Tension, Suicidal Thoughts, Typical Night Vale Violence, UST
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 12:15:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maharetchan/pseuds/Maharetchan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Falling means loneliness, isolation and having a terrible and crippling emptiness inside. And when you feel like this, so hopeless and desperate, even a disemboweled and mildy creepy voice that narrates the life of an ever creepier desert town can be a comfort; aka, after he falls, Castiel starts hearing the Night Vale community radio program playing in his head, helping him, keeping him company and making him realize the depth of his feelings for Dean; and lets be real, this is not even the weirdest thing that ever happened to him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	breathing through the radio

**Author's Note:**

> Part of the [DCBB 2013](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/). It was amazing to be able to be part of this great challenge.  
> The amazing art for this story was provided by the super, incredible talented [petite_madame](http://petite-madame.livejournal.com/). Special thanks to my beta [Anne](http://twinkifer.tumblr.com/) for being the best ever and to all the people who supported me and this story. ^^  
> [MASTER LIST FOR ART AND FIC ON LJ](http://deancasbigbang.livejournal.com/132391.html)  
> [POST ON TUMBLR WITH LINK TO THE FANMIX FOR THE STORY](http://samiferist.tumblr.com/post/64129198747/breathing-through-the-radio-story-by)

**“It's not true I had nothing on, I had the radio on.”  
Marilyn Monroe**

"Can you hear it too?"

Dean closes the door of the car and then he and Sam turn around to look at him; there's a puzzled expression in their eyes, something that is halfway between surprise, confusion and, in a very small part that Cas can still pretend he's able to ignore, pity.

"You can hear the radio too, right?"

Castiel barely manages to register his own voice over the faint and distant static, but rising in intensity, buzzing noise inside his head; he forces himself not to close his eyes and press his fingers at the top of the bridge of his nose, where an headache is already building: he still cannot cope with those and the pain he's feeling now is so strong and sudden, it makes a powerful nausea crash over him in hard waves of discomfort.

Sam nods absently and points to the small radio beeping and glowing in the half darkness of car's cabin, while Dean barely moves and keeps his eyes on him, maybe trying to decide if he's drunk or sick or just gone, at last, finally crazy for good, because who the hell asks such stupid questions? Cas would agree, but the pain behind his eyes is growing and growing and he has troubles focusing; everything is grey and opaque, washed out of all colors and he feels lost in a colorless world with confused shapes that melt and mix in weird new figures that stare down at him and surround him.

"Yeah, of course we can hear it, Cas. It's not playing very good music right now, I'll give you that, but we sure as hell haven't gone deaf yet."

That's not what I mean, you don't get it Dean, you just don't get it, he wants to argue; he wants to tell them everything, wants to explain what he really means, what he has been hiding inside his heart for so long, but a piercing sound strikes his head, making him feel like it's splitting in two, pain erupting from every cell of his brain and he can't. He just can't. 

He even lets out a small moan of pain before he can stop himself and Sam looks up to him, asking him if he's ok, so worried and almost scared that Cas feels a terrible guilt spreading in his chest, gripping his lungs hard, squeezing them until he can barely breath.

He doesn't want them to worry, doesn't want to see those familiar eyes witness what's happening in the deepest recesses of his mind, the division inside it, halfway between the normal, solid and real world and the secret, foggy and hidden world of the radio.

So he just nods and the two brothers, after a few seconds of wondering, seem to be satisfied and start the engine again; but he catches Dean still staring at him from time to time, stealing suspicious glances he can't do anything about.

Cas lies back against the backseat of the Impala, eyes closed, breathing as slowly as he can, filling his lungs and then emptying them, feeling air and life going in and out of his body with each rise and fall of his chest.

After a few minutes, the sound stops, the buzzing diminishes and the voice comes back.

"Sorry about that," the speaker says in his reassuring tone, "We are not entirely sure what just happened..."

Castiel can't help but agree with him.

\------

The radio, in his imagination, is alive: something that breathes through the mouth of its speaker, that exists and grows and changes and evolves along with him. A gentle monster that stirs and comes out of hiding when he's not excepting it to. 

When the silence is so deep he feels lost, abandoned, and hopeless, it comes to him and speaks softly of distant things that keep his mind busy, that keep him company when everything else fades away and all he has is the empty hole in his chest, the pain it brings him and the desolation of his devastated life.

When the night comes, he often cannot sleep, and all he allows himself to do is to keep staring at the empty ceiling and listening to Dean breathing in his sleep on the other bed; when this does nothing but fueling his terrible isolation, the voice arrives to comfort him, like an old friend he didn't know he had.

Castiel smiles in the darkness of the room, smiles at the voice that narrates facts and events far away from him, things that are happening in another place, maybe even in another world or another time, and feels grateful for its company, for its reassuring presence.

You never know how alone and desperate you are, how deep and intense the pain you feel is until somebody puts a hand on your shoulder, squeezes it and smiles down at you with kindness and desire to help.

He falls asleep during the weather, allows the notes of the music to calm his soul, to soothe the deep wounds he has inside and when he wakes up, the radio is quiet.

For now.

\------

It came out of nowhere: one evening, after hearing a continuous buzzing and whistling sounds in the background of his mind since his fall from Heaven, Castiel just listened very closely to that confused mass of noises in his head and realized it was just there, waiting to be discovered, waiting for him to realize it, to put enough order in the chaos of his mind to register its clear sound.

"Hello, listeners."

It said, with a tone that sounded both cheerful and gloomy at the same time.

He wondered if it had something to do with his new humanity, if all human beings had a radio in their heads, something that stayed with them all the time and helped them to cope with a terrible and hurtful life, full of hardships, of heartbreaking pain and despair.

But it turned out that it was only for him; and he was sure he didn't deserve it.

The radio kept his nightmares of dead angels, destroyed heavens, of sins and mistakes at bay: his nights were wrapped in its soft buzz, in tales of dog parks with mysterious hooded figures, of feral dogs, glowing clouds and sinister beings appearing and disappearing without any control; there were angels too there, but Castiel didn't know any called Erika, so he figured out they had to be something different from what he used to be. New, terrifying, but marvelous creatures.

Castiel tried to ignore it at first, to brush it off and focus on anything but the insistent and intermittent talking.

But, it turned out, radios can be extremely stubborn in their pursuits and very unwillingly to let go and leave him be.

The radio is here for you, Castiel, it seemed to say, it'll be here to hold your hand and sing you to sleep for as long as you'll need it. I will be here even forever, if that's what you need.

He finds out that it's far too easy to accept some comfort when you've reached the bottom and are trying really hard to rise up once again, to climb the slippery walls of the well you fell into. Even a disemboweled voice that comes from whoever knows where and could possibly be not even real, but just part of his imagination, of the delirium of a mind that cannot come to terms with what he has done, with the terrible burdens he has inside, can do the trick. There are worst ways and places where one can find comfort after all, he thinks.

\-----

Sometimes he wants to tell Dean and Sam about the radio, so they can go and investigate the little city in the desert that is starting to feel as familiar as the bunker to him, with its magical strangeness, its inexplicable events, disappearances, violent deaths and whispering forests appearing out of nowhere, but, for some reason, he always ends up forgetting to mention it.

Or weird things start to happen around them, like mysterious lights appearing in the sky, right above an Arby's he can't help but notice, lights only he can see, piercing noises deafening and hurting him, impromptu vortexes that suck away a few people and release strange creatures with multiple eyes and limbs that disappear in the span of a few second, leaving behind the world exactly as it was, but slipping a sense of fear that grips him right inside, that are enough to distract him.

He's starting to suspect the Sheriff's Secret Police may be responsible for that.

\-----

The voice of the radio is a man called Cecil who is madly in love with the perfect scientist Carlos; Castiel finds himself looking at Dean when Cecil starts rambling about him, find himself exploring his face with his eyes for a very long time and feeling in his heart the same dull ache he can imagine must be in Cecil's.

The desire to touch, to feel, to speak of what he has buried in his heart for so long he can no longer remember when it started to be there, maybe it was there all along like the radio but it took him a while to realize it; it's something that leaves deep holes in his soul, holes that bleed, that long to heal and be filled with something soothing and curative so bad that sometimes he feels like the weight of this pain will crush and destroy what little is left of him.

And it's really not much; he's a wreck, a broken shell of what he used to be, tainted and wrong and who would ever want to love him? Who would want to touch and ease his pain? Nobody, he tells himself when everything around him is grey and desperate, when he doesn't know what to do, what to say, how to rise again from the pile of ashes and burnt bones that is his life now.

Cas imagines words coming out of his mouth, imagines his hands holding Dean's, feeling their warmth against his fevered skin, touching him where he needs, kissing his lips, biting them, leaving marks on his body that will make him feel like he finally belongs somewhere, to someone, that he's not alone anymore in a world too cold and distant from him to be really his own.

There are nights where his dreams are so vivid that not even the radio can overcome them: dreams where Castiel can feel Dean's body all around him, pressing and moving inside him, making him feel alive, accepted, loved; between their entangled and naked bodies, there are no fears, there's no judgment, the past is forgotten and sins and mistakes are finally forgiven.

He can taste whiskey and love on Dean's lips, his hands are rough and callous, his voice is shaky and husky, but with a rich and tender fondness buried in the back of it that brings a smile on his face and makes him reach up to bring him down and kiss him again and again and again, until they cannot breathe, until the burdens they both carry are lifted from their aching shoulders for a while.

He wakes up painfully hard and with his eyes wet with tears he doesn't remember even starting to cry; his heart is in a terrible grip of despair, so hard it makes it hard for him to breathe.

One could die like this, with knives made of pain running through the soft tissues of the heart, opening and destroying it with a cruelty he knows he deserves but that he still fights against. Because it hurts, because being human hurts, being in love crushes your ribcage and not being able to tell anyone about it holds and compresses your lungs until you feel like you're dying.

He manages to get up and locks himself into the bathroom, taking a long shower that doesn't washes away the sick feeling he has on his skin. He wants to drown under the hot water, wants it to sip deep in his soul and cancel forever everything that is wrong in his. Like a baptism, like a blessing.

But it's just water, plain and simple: and he doesn't deserve to be saved, to be helped.

The silence around him is deafening, horrible, overwhelming. Castiel almost wants to scream just to break it, to let out the raw emotions he has bottled inside for so long and doesn't know how to deal with: the knowledge of being a failure, of being the cause of so much suffering that not even a million lives of atonement will manage to purge him clean of, to wash him and restore his lost purity.

The terrible guilt he feels when he looks at Sam, with his haunted eyes, and the memories of how many times he let him down and hurt him come back to bite him, making him bleed, but not as much as he needs. He wanted to help him, to be a good friend to the man who always had his back no matter how hard he was fucking up.

The devastating feelings he has for Dean, that claw at his skin and reopen old wounds, that dig into layers and layers of lies and untold truths, of secrets he keeps buried because he doesn't know how to let them out, how to put them into words that would give them justice, that will make Dean see, feel, know what he wants, what he needs.

Cas puts his head against the tiles and prays silently to whoever is willing to listen to help him.

"Here is something odd," says the radio in his head, Cecil's voice sounds pleasantly cheerful and almost happy, considering that what follows is a detailed account of the terrible affair of the feral dogs and of the bloodshed that came with them.

He can't help the smile that makes his lips curve softly.

\------

Cas looks at the rain outside the window of the motel while he researches something for their new case: the drops that are hitting the stained glass like tears, the sky grey and sad, like it's angry at something, at them maybe; the voice of the radio is quiet today and he wonders what happens to the little desert town when there's no sound, if it exists when the radio goes silent, if the town really exists at all.

He's starting to know it and its citizens so well he feels a great deal of need to know that they are ok, to watch over them like he used to do with human beings when he was still an angel.

He has so many questions, so many doubts and images swirling inside his thoughts, and sometimes they're so deep he loses himself in them, like a swamp that sucks him and brings him under the water; he imagines old woman Josie frozen in time together with her angels, John Peters, you know, the farmer, immobilized while examining his latest harvest of imaginary corn, the Apache Tracker with its cartoonish and offensive headpiece as still as a wax figure in a museum.

All waiting for a sparkle of life that may never come again.

Then he imagines them coming alive again when Cecil opens his microphone and starts talking, describing events that only take place while the radio is on, only when the soft voice that sips through the layers on his brain and arrives to him through complicated detours he cannot even begin to imagine, makes them real, makes them actually exist.

He imagines a little toy town, with houses, streets, people, pets, hooded figures in miniature that wait for the breath of life, for the chance to have incredible adventures narrated by Cecil's voice.

For the chance to live, to exist. 

He understands them, he felt like this too, once upon a time, when he was still an angel and looked down on the world from Heaven, waiting for the right moment to come, stuck in a timeless, ageless and eventless bubble that felt safe and confining at the same time.

He misses it sometimes, misses having a purpose, a mission, a reason to live, misses the comfort that came with feeling the presence of his brothers and sisters in his mind, knowing that he was never truly alone. Now when the Night Vale radio is silent as well, his loneliness can only be filled by his own thoughts and there's nothing he likes there. There's only a terrible and consuming ugliness.

Castiel wonders what the people of Night Vale, if they exist, if they're alive and real, do when the radio doesn't describe their lives: if they try really hard to find interesting conversations topics not to bore the secret organizations monitoring them (Cas still hopes that that is not actually true, to be honest: he was always uncomfortable with reading people's minds, because it felt rude, inconsiderate, violating, and the thought of that is so distasteful to him he flinches even now), if they chant in front of their bloodstones, if they pray for their lost loved ones and try to avoid thinking about the dog park that after all does not exist.

He wonders what Cecil thinks about when he's alone in his house, when the day is over and he can rest his sore throat: wonders if he thinks about Carlos as much as he thinks about Dean, if Cecil imagines Carlos' hands sliding on his naked body, his lips pressing on his skin and on his lips, his mouth whispering secrets into his ears. If Cecil desperately wants Carlos to kiss the mess of tattoos he has on his body, drawings of mysterious monsters and unmentionable horrors, as much as Cas wants Dean to kiss the scars on his own, to lick the thick tissues and bite down on them until he'll thrash and moan. Until he'll open the wounds again and reshape them to be only his.

Maybe things work differently in Night Vale, maybe desire and the ways it manifests itself are impossible to explain, out of this world's logic; maybe Cecil would be satisfied to just slip his hands into Carlos' perfect hair, to kiss the bridge of his nose and hold him close. Because he's a better person that he is, while Cas aches with a terrible thirst that sometimes he can barely contain.

Sometimes he just wants to push Dean hard against the wall and ravish his mouth, kiss him until he'll break the soft skin of his lips with his teeth, until he'll hear him moan and laugh with him.

Castiel shivers in the cold room and adjusts the sweater he's wearing better around his thin body; he takes a few deep breaths, the cold air caressing his lungs almost gently.

His body tenses when Dean appears in his space and sits in front of him, smiling nervously, or trying to at least, his mouth twisting into a weirdly shaped line; Cas smiles back, as genuinely as he can, and closes the laptop, turning his attention completely to him.

He's still not used to people sneaking up behind him, to be surprised and startled, not to be completely in control of the space around him: but he ignores the uneasy feeling for now and focuses on Dean.

They stay in silence for a long time, just looking at each other, trying to find something to say to break the ice between them; Dean's body is all hard lines, muscles contracting and relaxing under the layers of clothes and skin: Cas can almost see them if he closes his eyes, can hear and feel his heartbeat, his blood pumping life into his veins. 

He pushes aside his thoughts, his desires, his needs, tries not to let them show up on his face or in the way his limbs starve to close the distance between him and Dean and wrap themselves around him, surrounding and loving him as good as he can, until all the love he keeps bottled in his heart will be reciprocated by Dean's touches and kisses.

"Shitty weather, uh?"

"Yes, it doesn't seem to want to stop raining at all today."

"Well, I hope Sam is still at the library and not outside under this damn downpour. We really don't need him to get sick while we are hunting this son of a bitch of a werewolf."

Cas nods and goes back to watch the rain fall, with Dean's eyes still locked on him. The minutes stretch around the two of them, time flies slowly and wraps its hands around their bodies like a blanket.

"Mankind used to think that the rain was the tears of the gods. They made sacrifices and prayed and built temples to makes them happy again, to make them stop crying. They loved the sun so much they couldn't bear to be deprived of it for too long. The rain was good: it was life, clear and refreshing water; but the sun was the fire that kept the world alive, the light that kept the monster at bay."

Dean stares at him with an unusual look in his eyes, like a child who's listening to a beautiful story and doesn't want it to end ever, wants the voice to keep talking and talking forever. Maybe that's what Cecil really is, a lonely voice in a world in desperate need of new tales, a voice with a mission and that goes on and on, inventing new stories, finding new adventures, new events to describe so he'll not leave the people that count on him alone, so he can offer them the comfort of a friend.

So he smiles again and keeps talking too, modulating his voice is a pleasant and relaxing tone, watching Dean's body become softer and less stiff.

"I remember it, you know, I was there. I loved to watch those little figure work and build incredible things out of mere rocks, shaping them into palaces and houses and temples... all to honor gods that were supposed to keep them safe, to protect them. Their faith was shaken sometimes, but they kept going on. Kept praying for the rain to wash over them, for the sun to keep rising and shining every morning. It was incredibly beautiful and heartbreaking."

Dean takes a deep breath and runs a hand through his hair.

"Do you miss it? I mean... of course you miss being an angel but..."

He vaguely gestures with his hand and Cas can't help the soft laugh that slips out of his chest. Then he inhales deeply and a sad look appears in his eyes.

"Sometimes I have no idea how I will be able to live like this, not being what I've always been anymore and with no hope of getting back what I lost, stripped of everything that made me... well... me. I miss belonging, having a place in the world. But then now everything is so different, so vivid and alive; the world changed and, while sometimes I cannot help but hating it... I can still see so much beauty in it that was hidden to me before. And for that I'm thankful. I just wish I could still have my powers so I could help you and Sam. So I could still be helpful. Instead I feel useless most of the times."

He doesn't understand how all these words managed to come out of him, where he found the strength to let them loose, to be brave enough to look Dean in the eyes and give voice to his most hidden fears, to his despair, to the void of painful emptiness he feels in his heart. Music is playing his head, a man sings about finally seeing clear and Cas wishes he could too, that he could finally dissipates the clouds that cover his eyes and darken his mind. Wishes he could see the sun again and stop the never ending storm in his soul.

He almost wants to take them back, but the liberating feeling of freedom that is spreading inside him now is so sweet and calming it makes his eyes close and the air itch in his lungs; it's like there's a hand on his back, rubbing on it in circles, massaging his sore and abused muscles until they stop hurting, until all he can feel is a latent heaviness in them, but no pain, not anymore.

Dean is not looking at him; his eyes are fixed on his hands, on his short and cleans nails and Cas finds that he misses that peaceful green on him now, capable of giving him hope even when they are turbid and darkened by rage and hate; behind them there's love, so much love, care and kindness and the burning desire to make things better, to make everything better.

It's a light at the end of a long, hard and dark tunnel for him.

"You're not useless, Cas. You... are many things, that's damn sure. But useless it's not one of them. Trust me."

Castiel wants to reach out and take his hand between his own, to brush his cheek against the palm, to feel his callous fingers explore his face, pressing against the hollow of his eyelids, against his parted lips, the curve of his jaw. Wants to kiss them, to lick the tips and slide them in his mouth, wants Dean to touch him and letting him know that he's alive, that he can still be a man even as broken as he is.

That there's something that can still be worth of attention in him.

He lowers his head and fills his chest with the dusty scent of the motel room, drinks in the desolation that recedes and leaves room to a warm feeling that makes his skin tingle and shiver. Dean looks at him again and his lips are so full, Cas just wants to kiss them, to worship every part of him.

But in the end, he just nods and smiles; there's no time for this now, there's still too much mess and confusion around him and he needs time to find his way, to find a balance that will not make him tremble and fall like a dead leaf. He needs to be strong, to find himself, to become stable and grounded again before he starts walking down this bumpy and troubled road that stretches in front of him.

Dean stays with him while he goes back to his researches, a quiet presence, a physical one this time; Cas can feel its warmth, its comforting and radiating heat.

For now, it's enough.  
\-----

The radio describes a world out of time, out of space, where the boundaries between what's real and what could be just a dream or a nightmare become so thin one can barely see them; so thin that terrible things could, and sometimes do it, slip through them and pass into this plane of existence, camouflaging themselves so they cannot be recognized, but still doing their part in tearing open wounds into the soft and breakable tissue of reality.

The Glow Cloud asks for adoration and recognition, its flashing thunders generating a phantasmagoria of colors in the sky that is capable to bring pure happiness or absolute despair in the ones who witness its magic, while showering the town with little dead animals. Secret organizations spy on their absolutely aware citizens, angels change light bulbs for old ladies who offer their houses to them without questions.

The mayor organizes press conferences over press conferences, sometimes talking for hours, sometimes staring at the crowd in silence and once in a while ordering a massacre of unlucky journalists, just to spice things up a little bit, you know, nothing serious.

The hooded figures in the dog park hover menacingly, pacing around the town while everybody pretends they do not exist, that the dog park itself does not exist, trying not to even think about the fact that the dog park does not exist. 

Librarians devour random readers; tiny people prepare to bring war upon Night Vale and to invade it.

The man in the tan jacket walks the dusty streets and observes, mostly unseen and unrecognized, his briefcase full of flies, his mind lost in secret not even the brightest mind could understand. Koschek the cat keeps hovering in the men's bathroom, content and peaceful.

Cecil, locked in his little office, with his trusted microphone ready and live, talks for hours, holds the town's hand from the darkness of the radio and thinks about his Carlos.

And Castiel just keeps listening.  
\-----

He sits down with Sam one night and they talk about the fallen angels; it's hard to describe the absolute pain of the fall, the savage burn that consumes you whole, the fire that surrounds you and incinerates everything that made you an angel, that gave you a sense of identity.

Cas absently touches the scar on his neck, where Metatron cut out his grace; it still hurts sometimes, a soft sting of pain that runs through his body, like an invisible force inside of him is trying to hold on to something lost forever, something that maybe will never come back.

Sam listens in silence, his eyes increasingly sadder, but relieved to see him open up to him, to listen to what weights down Cas' soul; always looking for a way to help other people, to be there for his friends, a tall and sturdy pillar of support that doesn't fall no matter how broken it is, how damaged its structure can become, how many blows it takes. Sam keep on standing, resists against the floods, fights against the currents, the winds and the earthquakes that shake the soil under him.

Castiel knows he understands better than anyone how it feels like to be empty, to be deprived of everything, reduced to a broken shell; he speaks softly to him in the silence of the bunker, words coming out of his mouth with an ease Cas envies.

Sam tells him that no matter what, he'll always have a place with them, that everything can be forgiven and forgotten, that one cannot change the past, but that the future is waiting to be made and that he knows Cas will do the right thing, that he has faith in him.

His eyes are wide and calm, there's an affection in them that makes his heart ache because no, he doesn't deserve it, he made him suffer so much, broke him and devastated his mind; Sam should hate him, not comfort him. But the man's heart is so big and full of love it just cannot be contained and Cas feels grateful for all of this, for every gentle word, for the warm touch of his hand against his arm.

Sam listens to him and understands; Cas sees in front of his eyes the pain of his brothers and sisters while he talks about it, feels the fire burning off his wings, skin and flesh off his bones. It makes his whole being clench in suffering.

But after, his heart is lighter, he's relieved, a weight lifted off his shoulders; he never told anyone how much he could feel of those last moments, how terrible it was to watch and be unable to do anything, to help, to save them. He could only scream "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry," but no one was there to listen.

When he's finally done, his eyes are humid with tears he could not cry, that didn't want to fall no matter how hard he wanted them to; Cas takes a deep and shaky breath, looks at Sam and tries to smile.

Sam smiles back and thanks him for opening up to him, for telling him all this; Cas thanks him for listening, for being a better friend he'll ever be, a better man he can ever aspire to become. 

He looks at the both of them: the fallen angel and the devil's vessel; both destroyed so deeply they're almost reduced to dust, but still breathing, still alive.

In his head, the weather ends and Cecil starts talking once more.

Castiel smiles to himself and closes his eyes while Sam gets up and leaves the room; he falls asleep with the sound of the voice of Night Vale in his ears and for once, there are no nightmares waiting for him in the corners of his mind.

\------

Here's the most astonishing and marvelous thing about Night Vale: you never know when the described events are taking place.

There could be days, months, even years or centuries apart between them, or they could be happening all together at the same time, in a terrible mix of tragedies, dramatic catastrophes, poetry weeks gone terribly wrong, street cleaning days filled with despair and destruction and press conferences of uncertain outcome. 

Or they could not be happening at all and just be the product of his abused imagination, he still isn't sure to be quite honest; sometimes there are no doubts in him that what is happening is real and sometimes there's just one big mess and everything is oily, slimy and confusing in his mind.

Cas finds it oddly comforting, this lack of sense and reason he sees in the events that Cecil narrates; the real word is causes and effects, everything is trapped in a progression that never stops, that cages you in it and slowly strangles you until you're dead and still, after you're gone and reduced to dust and bones, everything will still go on and on forever even without you. The machine will never stop, too perfectly oiled and functional to cease its work.

The uncertainty of Night Vale is a balm on his abused and wounded body, a fresh, wet cloth on his tired eyes; he doesn't have to worry about following a script there, about remembering, even about thinking sometimes: everything is odd and confusing and it feels liberating, revolutionary even.

It's a timeless Eden, a paradise for a mind that has seen too much already and still has to endure more and more, that cannot rest, is not allowed to rest no matter how much he just wants to close his eyes and go to sleep.

There is no peace for him yet, no chance of laying his tired body down and forget everything, curled in a bed, with another body next to him in his dreams, a warm and welcoming body that smells like Dean and has his beautiful smile and his bright eyes that look at him with love and care, with arms that surround him and welcome him home.

Castiel can close his eyelids, put his head on the pillow and try forget the real world for a while, forget that time exists, that there are things, responsibilities, dangers and horrors that creep under his door, that breathe together with him in the dark, that wait for him outside, ready to devour him if he loses his concentration and lowers his defenses.

These are his secret and treasured moment of peace and he cherishes them, thankful, wraps them around his body like a soft and protective blanket that warms him when the night is too cold. When the world is unforgiving, he can hide there for a while.

He only hopes he'll not lose himself forever in this parallel world; sometimes, it seems far too easy to do it and it scares him far less than it should.

\-----

One night, after a hunt, he and Dean get drunk; Cas is sporting a new and homemade set of stitches on his arm and gulps down as much alcohol he can to dull the pain, while Dean has a broken lip and a black eye, but is otherwise unharmed. Sam is asleep in his room, recovering too, but the two of them are still too high on the adrenaline from the chase to go to bed.

They laugh and look at each other through half opened lids, the sounds muffled as much as they can manage to; Cas feels a strange kind of courage pumping in his veins, a boldness and a bravery that is new to him, something that comes with the intoxication and the pride for a successful hunt: they saved lives, they helped people and that feels so good he wants to scream his lungs out.

Dean is retelling for the tenth time tonight the moment when he finally managed to stab the vampire before cutting off his head and Cas is shaken by another stupid fit of laughter; his eyes are so beautiful, he thinks, I want to hold them in my hands, I want to kiss them, I want to kiss his whole body, to worship it like temple.

He's hard in his ragged jeans and just wants, needs, to reach out, touch his face, slide his fingers on his shoulders, put them under his clothes and feel the skin hot under the tips, wants to lick the curve of his neck, the valleys of his collarbones, wants to bite down on his chest and then suck on the mark until it'll be red and angry and Dean will be moaning and thrashing under him.

The man licks his lips and the smile freezes on his mouth, that perfect mouth he wants to kiss for the rest of his life; the look in his eyes changes, it goes wilder, almost hungry, like the grin of a wolf that is about to sink its teeth in its freshly captured prey that still fights and writhes under him.

And Cas would let him, would happily let him do everything he wanted to him, spread his legs, moan and sob while Dean fucks him hard into the mattress until he can't breathe, until all he will be able to do will be grabbing his shoulders and sink his nail into the soft flesh there, biting to tone down his sounds of pleasure.

Dean follows the curve of his body with his gaze: maybe he's imagining the naked skin under the dusty and overused clothes, imagining to touch his wound gently, kissing it softly and then proceeding with the rest; his imagination is running free and Cas doesn't know how to stop, how to rebuilt the boundaries and the barriers in his mind. He's dangerously on the verge of doing something he'll regret forever and he's suddenly afraid.

Fear creeps under his skin and it tastes bitter in his mouth, like a rotten fruit; he wants to touch but is afraid to burn himself against the flame of this desire, of this love that breaks his heart and his body, that leaves him crippled.

The radio is silent, smothered by the alcohol maybe, or maybe not, he really can't tell: it's so hard to focus and he feels so hot everywhere, aches in places he didn't know he could, discovers new needs every time he looks at Dean.

"Maybe we should go to sleep, it's really getting late and we are both hammered..."

Cas swallows and then nods, eyes still on Dean, eating him alive with his gaze, trying to feed his fantasies with everything he can get, as little as it is; he tries to make it be enough, because he probably will never have more.

The thought is devastating, but it serves the purpose to calm his arousal a little bit, enough for him to breathe a little more easily.

"Yeah, we should."

But neither of them moves or breaks the eye contact; it's so hard to let go, to get up and walk away from this, from the tension between their starving bodies that keeps them together and binds them in a rim of desperation and need that they just cannot seem to be able to interrupt for good or give in to.

Then suddenly, Dean beams and starts to laugh softly, making him frown in confusion; but it's contagious and Cas finds himself returning the smile.

"What is so funny?"

Dean takes a deep breath and tries to calm down; it's endearing, sweet and painful all together.

"Ah, nothing. Really. I was just thinkin' you could tell me 'nother one of those stories of yours, like the rain and the Gods and all that you told me the other time. A nice bedtime story to rightfully finish this glorious day! What you say, Cas? Uh?"

Castiel laughs too, but only for a second before he presses his fingers against his eyes, to wipe away the fog that is clouding them, the tiredness that doesn't make him see as clearly as he should, while his mind already frantically works to find the right words, the right tone of his voice. He thinks of Cecil and of his ability to reach out and touch the heart of his listeners so effortlessly it makes him envious and self conscious. 

"Of course Dean, of course."

Dean swallows and rests better against the couch, facing him while he's curled on the other side of it; Cas closes his eyes for a long moment and sleep almost overcomes him, but he fights it away and when he opens them again he knows what to say.

"Mankind considered the moon the companion of the sun, they thought of them as two sides of the same coin: one was the burning light of the day, life, beauty, warmth; the other was the sole comfort in the darkness of the night, a cold but beautiful guiding strength. One could not be without the other, they were intertwined together forever.

But they were cursed lovers, destined to meet only for a few brief moments and spend the rest of their lives apart. Their love was deep and eternal, but they would never be able to taste true happiness, to know what fulfillment really felt like." 

Cas doesn't look at him, not right away at least; his mind is taken away on the breeze of the wind of his thoughts, swiped in every direction, making him feel painfully lost: he's exposed, naked in front of Dean's eyes, with his heart in his hands, offering it to him.

Dean inhales deeply and gulps down the little that remains in the bottle of his last beer; his eyes are sad and Cas wants to sink deep in a bottomless ocean, forget that this ever happened and take everything back. It hurts to be so open, so desperate for love and acceptance: he feels as lonely as the cold and distant moon, trying to get a glimpse of his beloved sun that shines away from him, impossibly far, too far to reach.

"Well, that's really damn sad."

Cas nods.

"Yes, it certainly is."

He longs for the comfort of the radio, because if he can't drown in Dean's arms, in his touches and kisses, in the pressure of his body against his own that will cancel all the soreness from his limbs, that will put him back together and heal him, at least he wants the next best thing.

Their hands brush against each other and for a moment Cas can feel the gravity pulling them together, trying to make their mouths touch and crush, can feel a sparkle of energy that burns on his skin like acid, that leaves him with a deep hole in his heart, something that stings and tingles, oozing out blood and love mixed together until they're unrecognizable.

Dean's eyes shoot up to meet his, wide and kind and full of a strange feeling that Cas wants to believe is love or at least affection; he pulls him closer and they're so close, so impossibly close... he can feel breath on his lips and warmth against his body...

But the moment breaks and Dean backs away from him, leaving him like this to go in his room, desperate and alone; maybe it's his natural status after all, being unable to get what he wants and suffer in silence with his heart empty and in pieces.

It's what I deserve, he thinks, I can't have what I want because I've too much blood on my hands to deserve to touch and be touched. Hopes slip away from his body and he can feel himself descend into a black pit of darkness.

"The Arctic is lit by the midnight sun. The surface of the moon is lit by the face of the Earth. Our little town is lit too, by lights just above that we cannot explain. Welcome to Night Vale."

He would laugh if he could and he still cannot suppress a smile when Cecil's voice starts whispering in his ears, like a hand on his shoulder, a hug that circles his body with immense tenderness and tries to comfort him. It doesn't help much but it's still better than nothing, better than the deafening sound of loneliness, better than being alone.

Cas is never alone; the radio is always with him.

It's still enough.

But for how long?

\-----

Kevin to him sounds like a scary mix of Crowley and Dick Roman: courtesy and charm that serve the purpose to hide a terrible beast concealed under fine suits and fancy words, but that's ready to devour you if you get too close, if you're careless and allow it to get you. The whole story is a descent into the red pits of madness, into a bloody world that looks sugarcoated and perfect on the outside, but that is actually a nightmare come to life.

In Cecil's terrified voice, Cas finds himself with his fear of the future, his inability to cope with mortality and vulnerability, with the hardships and struggles of the life as a human being.

He hunts and fights and kills and destroys, but his heart is filled with panic and terror for what's going to come, for what waits for him behind the corners, ready to attack and maul him.

He worries about Sam and Dean, for being a liability more than an ally; worries about so much he can't cope with it sometimes, it's too much and his spirit is already too weakened to carry on.

The Sandstorm passes and leaves Night Vale and Desert Bluffs, but its evil breaths remain, linger above the towns, creating different shapes and twisted shadows that don't look quite right as crooked as they are. That smile with mouths full of sharp teeth and invite you to come closer only to eat you alive when you do, when you're stupid enough to trust them.

But it's still raging inside Cas' heart; he looks at Dean after that night and the bleeding ache he feels in his chest knocks the air out of his lungs every single time and leaves him gaping like a fish out of water that is dying alone on an empty beach.

The other man reciprocates his gaze, stares at him maybe a moment too long and it claws at his skin, cuts deep in his flesh, hangs him like a rope; the desire he feels is too intense sometimes he needs to leave and take long walks, relying only on the voice of the radio not to lose it completely.

Dean is a flame and he's the stupid moth that cannot stay away, that needs to feel that killing heat, to see that blinding light even just once, one time, the first and the last, even if he'll die after. One cannot decide who to love and how and this love is gutting, heartbreaking, cruel.

He gets out of the bunker and starts walking without a destination because he can't stay there anymore, he cannot breathe, cannot think and almost starts running to leave as soon as he can.

Faceless old women appear in Night Vale and Cas feels faceless and ghostly too, not completely part of this world, emptied and deprived of the roots of his being; he can't fit, cannot belong.

His hands are shaking, his body is cut in half, unable to move on or go back to the start; a scream builds in his chest but he's too afraid he'll not be able to stop it if he lets it out.

He's weary, tired, made of soft clay that is falling apart and the more he tries to grab something to support himself, the more he falls; and Dean is above him, too high for him to reach, so far away he can't even feel him anymore and it slays him.

The radio is a distant buzz now, just white noise; not even it can cope with the disaster in his heart, soothe it and patch it as well as it can. 

Maybe it's really the end, he thinks, maybe I should give up, fuck it all and drown, throw myself under a bus or from a building, put an end to all of this, to this pitiful existence I'm leading. I'm of no use to anyone anyway...

Cas feels tears fall from his eyes, warm against the cold wind that crashes over him, chilling him to the bones.

Maybe I should die. Maybe I don't deserve to live.

He's even considering how to do it, what to write in the letter he'll leave to Sam and Dean...

But that's when he feels a hand on his shoulder and sees Sam staring at him, worried, but still attempting to smile.

"Cas, are you ok?"

He wants to lie, but the words come out before he can control them.

"I... I don't really know. I just don't."

Sam breathes in and out, grabs him really hard and shakes him, bringing him back to the reality around him; he sees Dean in the background, leaning in against the Impala, looking at him and making him feel himself again.

"We were worried, you were gone for a long time..."

Cas nods and closes his eyes, listening to his beating heart, to his own breath, to his body that is still alive.

And likes it. He realizes in that moment that he cannot die now, not like this, by his own hand: he's already a wreck, but he's not a coward and will never accept to die like this. He'll fight and carry on. He has something to live for, has Sam and Dean in his life and he can't leave them, not now. Not like this.

"I'm sorry, Sam. Let's go back."

The man smiles and only then he lets him go.

"Yeah, let's go back."

\-----

They say the best things happen to you when you're busy thinking about something completely different, when your life is focused on other tasks and problems: that's when love and joy come to you, when you weren't seeking them and perhaps didn't even want them. Maybe that's why he picks that moment, that precise instant to do it. While is his whole existence is a bloody and confused mess, he does one simple, natural and so very human act.

Castiel kisses Dean after a hunt because they're both wounded and hurt and for some reasons it seems the perfect time to just crush their mouths together and kiss until they cannot breath; they hold each other tight and in Dean's eyes there's surprise, desire to fight once again these feelings that don't seem to belong inside neither of them, but that are there, buried in their hearts and now it's time for them to come out and be free. They lost too much and consumed too much time already: they need it, this, and they need it now.

"Cas..."

Dean tries to whisper, to be reasonable, but his hands are already all over his body and Cas will have none of it, not today. 

Cecil almost lost Carlos today and he almost lost Dean to a damned demon that attacked them when they were not prepared, that almost disemboweled him, laughing while doing it, before Cas managed to stab her, seeing red, fury running through his vein and corrupting his heart, making him merciless and cruel. Dean had to stop him, had to take Ruby's knife away from his bloody and slippery hands, grabbing them because they were shaking and he was trembling feverishly. 

He felt tears in his eyes, because Cecil was crying, thinking Carlos dead and far away from him, from the safe hold of his arms and Cas could not think straight, the world of the radio and his own crashing and burning together in a chaos that was overwhelming him.

He kissed Dean when Carlos was revealed to be alive, happiness spreading through his body, adrenaline making him feel high: Dean's lips were soft and rough at the same time, warm and they tasted like blood, gunpowder, sin and salvation all mixed together. It was perfect.

They stumble in Dean's room now, discarding their clothes as quickly as they can, moving their naked and barely cleared of all the blood bodies against each other, desperate to feel, to touch, to bite and scratch. Skin against skin, lips against lips, tongues that move together and it's like heaven, it's better than everything Cas ever experienced in his life; he feels at home, safe, loved, accepted, feels Dean fitting perfectly against his body, like he was always meant to be right there all around him.

They're hard, they're wild and nothing can stop them now, there's no turning back: they're on the edge of a cliff that goes on and on and on, that has no end, the slippery slope of their love that finally has both of them on the top of it, ready to fall together.

And they do: they hold hands, they kiss and then they let go, laughing and touching and holding tight while going down forever.

Dean pushes him on the bed, gets on top of his and explores his body with his lips and his fingers, works his skin until it's so red and hot Cas feels he's going to melt and die, because it's too much, it's so intense he moans and thrashes and cries out.

His mouth and his hands are everywhere: on his chest, on his neck and shoulders, back on his lips, kissing them until they're puffy and abused and God, it feels too good to be true...

Carlos puts his hand on Cecil's knee, holds him close and tells him that he doesn't care how weird Night Vale is, how fucked up everything around them is: only one thing matters and it's that they're both still alive, still breathing, the blood still pumping in their veins and hearts still beating. They can still look at the lights above the Arby's, still feel their bodies pressing together, still pretend not to know that the dog park actually really exist and pretend they're not even thinking about it and its dark hooded figures; or that the clocks are not real or that the Angels are not just an hallucination.

They do all these things because they can.

None of this matters anyway, because they are together and they are never going to let each other go anymore, not after all of this.

This is what Cas whispers to Dean between the kisses, while worshiping each other's bodies: he murmurs those words against his skin and Dean nods, Dean understands and Castiel smiles, moans and laughs all together, lost on a roller coaster of emotions that is only interrupted when Dean's mouth closes around his dick.

"Oh, Dean!"

His mouth is warm, wet, impossibly perfect while it bobs up and down on his length, caressing him exactly where he needs, making him shiver and moan ever louder; the world is so bright when he opens his eyes to look at him, lights shining all around them, but it must be his imagination, or maybe the influence of Night Vale, because nothing could shine like that there.

But he doesn't care, it looks beautiful, the lights reflect in Dean's eyes and it's the most incredible thing he has ever seen in his life, nothing can compare; billions of years of existence and Dean Winchester still manages to be the one thing capable of breaking his heart and then putting it back together again.

Dean sucks him, kisses him and Cas pulls at his hair, scratches his shoulders, thrashes under his body, under his strong and insistent hands that make him feel elated and finally whole.

They go slower when Dean lets go of his cock and gets back up to lie on him, back to kissing and rutting their bodies together above the covers, smiling and never letting go, not even for a moment; they have waited and suffered and deprived themselves of this for far too long, bleed too much, cried too may tears inside their hearts to do it any differently.

Cas caresses his face gently, kisses his nose, his closed eyes, his cheeks, bites his neck to leave marks that will remind to both of them who they belong to.

They make love as slowly as they can bring themselves to, fighting hard against the urge to hurry up, for it to be hard and rough and brutal; Dean opens him up with his fingers until he's loose and stretched, moves them in and out while kissing his nipples and playing with his navel. Cas groans, bucks his lips and pushes against him to feel more, as much as he can, feverish and desperate and wild with these savage needs buried for too long inside and that now need to come out and receive satisfaction.

They don't say anything while they move together, Dean buried deep inside him, sliding in and out at an agonizing pace, too busy kissing and moaning and saying with their bodies what their words and mouths can't, because the weights on their souls are still too heavy and complicated to be resolved now, because there will be a time to put into words what now is better left still unsaid; now it's time to feel the fire of their lust burning into their veins and on their skin.

Dean groans and caresses his face lovingly, kisses his lips on and on, leaves scratch mark on his chest, bruises on his hips where he grips them tight and spreads his legs even more open to move better, to give him more pleasure exactly like Cas wants it; Cas runs his nails on his back, follows the contour of his spine, touching and feeling every vertebrae under the tips, the bones of his shoulders under his palms.

The pleasure is so intense sometimes it verges on the edges of pain, it's brutal for how strong he can feel every single part of Dean longing and reaching out inside of him to touch him completely. 

They rock together in a rhythm that becomes faster and faster, harder, with thrusts that go deeper and deeper, carving deep in the hidden recesses of their bodies, discovering new pressure points, new sensations that neither of them knew they could feel.

"How does it feel? Feels good? Uh?"

Cas moans out loud when Dean changes his angle and hits something inside him that makes his see stars behind his half closed eyes, that makes him bite his lips so hard he tastes blood in his mouth once again, only this time it's almost sweet, because Dean goes down on his lips and licks it off, follows them with his tongue and then moans too, making Cas' cock twitch and leak more precome between their bodies.

"Yes... oh yes Dean... yes..."

He's burning, he's on fire, every part of him is hot, about to burst and explode in Dean's arms, under his kisses and his hands, under the pressure of the weight of his cock that fucks him hard and fast, that brings him closer and closer to his orgasm.

Dean suddenly stops for a moment to catch his breath and Cas can't help trying to move his hips to have more friction, more pressure, more everything. But then he looks him in the eyes and can help the deep, shaky sigh that makes his body tremble in his arms.

"You are incredibly beautiful..."

Dean, if possible, becomes even redder and hides his face in the sweaty crook of his neck, licking it off and allowing Cas to caress his hair and his head lovingly; he doesn't say anything, but he can feel him laugh softly and it's enough for him, it's more than enough, it's perfect and there's nothing he'll change of this moment, not one single damn thing.

Their movements become faster, frantic, both of them desperate to find release and pleasure in one another; Dean grabs his cock and starts pumping it in his fist and when Cas comes, he fucks him through it, still moving inside him, still buried right there where he needs him to stay.

They hold each other after, shaking, their bodies sweaty and sticky, but sated, floating in a bubble of love and passion that keeps them safe, that protects them from the world.

\---  
After a shower and a needed change of sheets, they stay buried under the covers, examining the marks on their bodies, kissing every single one of them, feeling them as a sign of trust, ownership, of promises for a better future that waits just for them.

Cas is still scared and he can feel that Dean is terrified as well, afraid to make a mistake that will ruin them both, to put their feet in the wrong place and fall down; but they are still willing to take a chance, to risk, because it's worth it, they are worth it.

He needs to thank the little desert community of Night Vale for opening his eyes and his ears, for making him see clearly.

Cas tells Dean about the radio, about Cecil, about everything and the other man listens with a smile on his face and nods and laughs without mocking him, but understanding, even thought it still does it in his own way, making jokes and making Cas laugh against his shoulders.

"I wonder why it came to me, why me of all people. Surely there is someone in the world who is much more deserving of such help than me, who needs it more..."

Dean shuts him up with a kiss, holds him closer and closer and pulls at his hair to make him look up and meet his eyes.

"Stop with this crap already, Cas! If it came to you... well, I'm sure there's a reason for it, right?"

Cas smiles and rests his head on his chest, closing his eyes and breathing in his intoxicating scent, feeling at peace, feeling safe like never before, because now the pieces of his heart can go back together, because now he can rebuild his life with Dean in it.

"I'm sure you're right, Dean."

"Now we should... you know... sleep."

And Cas sleeps, a whole night of sleep. No nightmares, no horror and monsters hidden in his mind and ready to get him.

There's only silence and peace in his mind, Dean's heartbeat against his ear and his breath to hold and lull him.

When he wakes up, the radio is gone for good.

\-----

Sometimes Castiel misses it, misses Night Vale and its impossible adventures, his weird citizens and all that came with it: he wonders if the angels still live with old woman Josie, if John Peters, you know, the farmer, had a good harvest of his notorious imaginary corn, if Mayor Pamela Winchell is still, in fact, the mayor, if the identity of the man in the tan jacket has finally been revealed. 

But most of all, he misses Cecil and Carlos; misses the reassuring voice, the gentle and courteous tone of his words, the way he could make everything brighter and mysterious at the same time.

Castiel hopes they're well, that they're together, that they managed to find the same happiness he feels now.

Castiel takes a deep breath and smiles to himself while Dean sits next to him and wraps an arm around his shoulder.

He hopes that Cecil's voice is helping someone else now, as much as it helped him.

And that, wherever Night Vale is, whenever it's real or not, the sun may still be shining on it and on Cecil and his beloved and perfect Carlos.  



End file.
